


Putting Things Right

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John deals with the aftermath of meeting Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting Things Right

**Author's Note:**

> The plot part of this story is based pretty heavily on A. C. Doyle's "The Empty House". I hope it is still enjoyable to those who will be able to predict what's going on.

The world returned slowly, one sense at a time. It smelled of disinfectant and disease. There was an incessant beeping somewhere to his left and a murmur of voices. For a terrifying moment he thought he was still in Afghanistan, in the army hospital and his return to London had been a dream. That Sherlock Holmes had just been a dream.

Holmes.

He forced his eyes open. The room was clean, light-blue walls, white sheets and state of the art medical equipment. The light coming through the window was a cold grey. Not Afghanistan, then. He turned his head towards the door.

Through the glass window he could see Lestrade talking to a nurse. He glanced into the room and when he saw John looking at him, he pushed open the door and came inside.

"Hello, Dr Watson. How are you feeling?"

John mentally checked himself over. He felt bruised and battered, but nothing seemed to be broken or otherwise gravely injured.

"Where's Sherlock?" His voice was raspy.

Lestrade handed him a glass of water from the night stand and helped him sit up enough so he could sip. He looked uncomfortable.

"Do you remember what happened?"

John thought back. He remembered the swimming pool. The bomb strapped to his torso. Holmes. Moriarty. Sitting on the floor, leaning against a support pillar. Holmes pointing the gun at the bomb, now lying on the floor between them and Moriarty. Moriarty taunting him. Holmes' finger bending. And then blackness.

"He shot the bomb."

Lestrade nodded. "That's what our Intel says. I'm afraid I have bad news, Dr Watson."

John shook his head, refusing to even consider what Lestrade's words could mean.

Lestrade continued, "From what our forensics team have told me, no one else made it out of that building alive."

"No."

"Look, Dr Watson, there was nothing left of the pool. Frankly, it's a miracle that you're still alive. There is no way either Holmes or this Moriarty survived the blast." Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm sorry, but Sherlock Holmes is dead."

\----

The hospital released John, after he threatened to sue them if they kept him against his will any longer. The fact that he could satisfactorily prove that he was a doctor and quite capable of looking after himself might have helped.

Lestrade had left shortly after he'd given John the news. John had sat frozen for a while, is brain refusing to accept the facts he'd just been told. Eventually he'd signed himself out and taken a taxi to Baker Street. If Holmes was still alive, that would be the most likely place to find any proof, he told himself.

He'd arrived at the house to find Mrs Hudson in tears and no sign of Holmes. He'd rooted around, asking for any news, any clues, but she didn't know anything. In the two days since the explosion there had been no sign that Holmes might still be alive – not even a cryptic text message.

Eventually John had sunk into the armchair, feeling defeated.

Mrs Hudson patted his shoulder and brought him a cup of tea. "You keep that flat, dear boy. I can't bear the thought of all this being thrown away." she dabbed at her eyes. "He was such an interesting young man. Reminded me of my late husband."

John nodded, absent-mindedly.

After three days of brooding in the way-too-silent flat, John grabbed his notebook on morning and sat down to type up Sherlock Holmes' last case. He owed his friend that much at least.

**The Final Problem**   
_It is with a heavy heart that I am typing these last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. My earlier entries have been rather incoherent, I am afraid, and this one probably won't be any different. Since I met Sherlock Holmes I have tried to give an account of my strange experiences in his company from the chance which first brought us together at the period of the "Study in Pink". I don't know if it's a good idea to write up this last adventure we had together, but..._

It took John most of the morning to write up the whole story. Once he was finished he pressed the Post button quickly, before he could change his mind. Then he grabbed his coat and went to work, closing the door resolutely behind him.

 

_Three Months Later_

"That's strange," John said, lowering the newspaper and frowning absently at Sarah over the breakfast table. "The Ronald Adair case. That whole murder business."

Sarah deliberately bit into her piece of toast, chewed and swallowed, before she answered. "He's dead, John. Why can't you let it go?"

"What? Sarah, I wasn't even thinking..." he trailed off, shaking his head. It didn't matter. He didn't want to fight with her – again. Especially not about Sherlock Holmes. They'd been over this topic way too often and he'd promised her he would move on. She was right anyway, he should let it go. Sherlock was dead and getting hung up on criminal cases that didn't concern him was not healthy.

John suppressed a sigh at the unwanted thought of how much more interesting his life had been with Sherlock around. He glanced down at the article again – deliberately not wishing things were different.

**Murder Mystery**

_Late last night, Scotland Yard was called to the scene of a murder in Park Road. The body of the notorious Mr Ronald Adair was found dead in his living room discovered by his mother and sister, upon their return from a trip to the cinema. Police sources informed us, that Mr Adair was found shot in the head by an as yet unknown person. Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard assured the press that this is a "single incident" and that "Scotland Yard will do everything in their power to catch the murderer". And yet, an insider source has revealed information that the police is at a loss because there was no bullet recovered and there seems to be no motive for the murder at all. Initial theories that the murderer might have used a sniper rifle are now being re-evaluated..._

Holmes would have loved this. John put the paper aside.

Despite his determination to forget about the case, John found himself preoccupied with it all morning. After searching online for more information on the case – thank modern times for online tabloids - he kept working the problem over in his mind between patients. Essentially, he was trying to think like Sherlock Holmes, even though he knew it would probably be pointless. One of his first ideas about the missing bullet was ice. But a quickly typed question into Google informed him that ice bullets were not actually possible. In a normal gun, the ice would break from the impact or melt from the heat of the gunpowder and if shot with an air gun, the velocity would not be great enough to actually cause this kind of deadly damage.

During his lunch break, John found himself wandering into Park Road to look at the scene of the murder. The house was set back from the road and surrounded by a dead-looking garden behind a short wall. Anyone could have jumped it.

The victim had been found on the third floor, the window had been open. John thought about the Black Lotus and how the killer had scaled the walls of buildings like Spiderman. Maybe that was how he'd gotten in. Slowly wandering past the building, John looked over the wall, checking the ground around the House for foot prints in the wet dirt. There were none. So that idea was a dead end, too.

At a loss for more ideas, John turned around to head back to the surgery, when he ran into someone. Muttering an apology, John steadied himself against the garden wall. The other person turned out to be an old homeless man, who brushed himself down irritably and muttered something about "fucking blind idiots" before continuing on his way without even a backward glance.

John decided to head to Angelo's restaurant for lunch. In the last months, he'd spent most of his lunch breaks there and the fact that Angelo still charged him a lot less than the normal price for a meal was not the only reason. But John refused to dwell on those other reasons too deeply. He hadn't fired his therapist for nothing after all.

He had just started eating when Angelo came over. John expected the usual exuberant greeting, but instead Angelo bent close and said quietly, "John, my friend, would it be too much trouble for you to accompany me for a few minutes?"

John frowned. He had half a mind to refuse, but Angelo's demeanour made it quite clear that he expected John to follow him without questions. Keeping in mind what Angelo's first career had been, John thought it prudent to comply. And if he was completely honest with himself, he was also plain curious.

Angelo led him to the office at the back of the restaurant. When John entered, he found himself face to face with an old homeless man. In fact, it appeared to be the same man he had run into earlier.

"I came to see you about your wallet," the old man said in a raspy voice.

John blinked and reached for his back pocket to check for said item. Which was missing. _Crap._

"You stole my wallet," John said.

"Indeed, I did," the old guy answered in a raspy voice. He held the wallet up for a moment, then threw it onto the desk next to him. He had misjudged, though and the wallet slipped over the edge to the floor. John bent to pick it up and when he straightened again he was looking at someone who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the old tramp that had been standing there a moment earlier.

He was looking at Sherlock Holmes. Things went a little grey.

When John came round again, he was looking into Sherlock's concerned blue eyes, and there was the taste of whiskey in his mouth.

"My dear John, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected," Sherlock said.

"Oh, my God! Sherlock!" John grabbed Holmes by the shoulders and pulled him down into a hug.

Holmes bent stiffly. "There is really no need for melodramatics, John."

John kept holding onto Sherlock. "I thought you were dead."

"Yes, I am aware of that," Holmes patted John's back, clearly feeling awkward about the whole situation. John finally let go of him.

"How can you still be alive? Everyone thinks you died in that explosion!"

"Yes, that was the intention," Holmes pulled over a chair and sank into it, steepling his fingers in front of him.

"But why," John was still reeling, barely able to grasp the truth.

"Isn't it obvious?" Holmes raised his eyebrows. When John shook his head, he elaborated, "While Moriarty was a master criminal he could not have maintained an organisation such as his without a partner or two. My reasoning was that, should I kill Moriarty and remain alive, those partners would surely come after me in revenge. Therefore I had to die as well. At least until I could find out who his partners are and how I could stop them."

"That makes sense. But why couldn't you tell me, at least?"

"Because my death had to seem genuine. If you'd known I was still alive, you'd never have written such a heartfelt obituary on your blog," Sherlock's lips curled into a smile, "'His was probably the greatest mind I have ever encountered'. How kind of you to admit it." He winked.

John scowled. "So, you being here, does that mean you got the partners?" he changed the topic.

Holmes inclined his head, "There is one last thread to be tied up, but if tonight goes well, they will all be either dead or behind bars for a long time."

"Tonight?" John sat up straighter.

"Indeed. I plan for another little adventure. Care to join me?" Holmes asked.

"Whenever you want and wherever you want, Sherlock," John said, his heart beating in excitement.

"Good. Meet me here at 9.30pm. Now, I think you should make your way back to the surgery or Sarah will be cross with you for being late."

\----

That afternoon, it felt to John like time was simultaneously flying away and not moving at all. He managed to concentrate on his patients just enough not to appear completely incompetent. When Sarah came into his office around 5pm, John was still fighting the ridiculous grin threatening to spread across his face every time he thought of Sherlock being alive and well.

She stood in front of his desk, hands on her hips, and regarded him sharply. "Something happened," she observed eventually.

John swallowed. He'd have to tell her, it wouldn't be fair otherwise. He took a deep breath, "Sherlock's still alive."

Sarah sank into the patient chair, narrowing her eyes at him. "I'm asking myself if you have completely lost it now, or if you're actually telling me the truth."

John told her what had happened over lunch. When he finished, she nodded. "You should quit."

"What?"

"Here, at the surgery, I mean. I know you'll just end up following him from one crazy adventure to the next and I need someone here who is reliable in his hours."

John couldn't deny that she had a point.

"You should also get your stuff from my place," she continued.

"You're breaking up with me?" John was taken aback. He'd thought they were finally going somewhere.

Sarah smiled sadly, "John, you've been thinking more of him than of me in the past three months and that was when you thought he was dead. I have no intention of sharing you with him. It wouldn't be fair on any one of us."

"But-" John protested, but she cut him off.

"John, I like you. I really do, but I know that you'll never feel for me the way you feel for him."

John threw his hands up in indignation, "I'm not gay!"

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." She got up. "You ever think that maybe you just fell in love?" she added more kindly. She left the room, leaving John sitting in stunned silence.

\----

At 9.20pm John entered Angelo's restaurant again. Angelo grinned at him and waved him through to the back office. Sherlock was already – or still – there, sitting in the chair behind the desk, his fingers pressed to his lips. Clearly lost in thought, he completely ignored John's entrance. John used this to take a good look him. Earlier today, he had been too shocked to take much notice of Holmes' appearance.

Holmes looked thinner than before, his hair longer and unkempt. His skin was paler than usual as well. Whatever he had been doing in those three months, it could not have involved a very healthy lifestyle. And yet, Holmes' expression was still the one John remembered. The creased brows over strikingly light blue eyes, his sharp gaze momentarily fixed in some empty middle distance.

John thought about what Sarah had said to him earlier. _...you just fell in love..._ rang through his head. Watching Holmes now, he wondered if it was true. The rational part of his brain scoffed at the idea. Sherlock was a man, he wasn't gay. The part of himself that had been moulded by years of army training supplying him with a whole list of scathing comments even though he didn't want it to.

"Ah, John," Holmes' voice broke through his reverie, "I need your phone."

John pushed his thoughts away, hid them in the dark corner of his brain where he kept all of his unwanted thoughts and memories. He pulled out his mobile and handed it to Holmes.

Holmes fired off what looked like a text message, then tossed the phone back to John. He got up, grabbed his jacket. "Coming?"

"Where are we going?"

"To catch one Mr Sebastian Moran, right hand man of the late Professor Moriarty," Holmes proclaimed and marched out the door.

\----

"Sherlock, where exactly are we?" John asked, standing next to Holmes in some dark, empty room.

Holmes pointed to the window. John inched forward and peered outside. "Huh," he said a moment later, "We're in Baker Street."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, we are two houses down from 221b, you might notice," Sherlock added.

John looked toward their residence and then turned around in surprise. "Sherlock, I can see your silhouette in the window."

Holmes chuckled. "Indeed. It's rather good, isn't it?"

Before John could answer, there was a sound further down in the house and Holmes suddenly grabbed John's arm, pulled him into the darkest corner and hissed at him to be quiet.

A few moments later, a shadow entered the room they were both hiding in and moved towards the window John had looked out of moments before. In the dim light John could make out the figure of a man carrying some sort of longish object. The man knelt down and John could here the unmistakable sounds of a weapon being put together. The metal and plastic clicking and clinking together and shortly later the man stood up again. John recognised the shape he was holding. John would have bet his life it was an air-rifle, even if a strange one.

The man opened the window, propped the gun on the sill and aimed it. There was a small PLOP and the man straightened up again. It was then that Holmes sprang forward, throwing himself onto the stranger.

They grappled together in silence for a few moments and John stood, watching as the two men seemed to meld into one huge undulating shadow in the darkness of the room. He tried to make out who was who, tried to decide if getting into the fight would be a good idea. There had to be something he could do. Then they broke apart again and John could see the stranger punching at Holmes and sending him reeling backwards.

Something in John snapped. He went for the rifle that had fallen to the floor, groping in the darkness, not taking his eyes off the fighting men. John's searching hand found the butt of the weapon, he re-adjusted his grip, took aim and hit the stranger over the back of his head. The man collapsed into a heap on the floor.

Holmes straightened, John could hear him breathing heavily. "About time."

"Excuse me? I would have been faster if you'd warned me that you intended to play clinch with a killer!"

Instead of an answer, Holmes patted John's shoulder, then took out his phone. "Lestrade? Yes, you can come in and collect him."

\----

Back at the flat in 221b Baker Street, John sank into an armchair and exhaled a laugh. "My god, Sherlock. That was amazing!"

Holmes stood, hands clasped behind his back. "You seem pleased."

"Pleased?" John jumped to his feet again, "Sherlock! This has been the best day of my life! A murder solved, you're back..." he trailed off, suddenly feeling awkward.

"I'm sorry about the break-up." Sherlock said.

"Break-up?"

"With Sarah. She was a nice woman, considering." He fiddled with the violin bow he'd picked up from a nearby table.

"Oh," John said, "Are you really sorry?" He stepped closer to Holmes.

Holmes looked up. "No."

There was a challenge in his expression and John had never been one to back down from a challenge. "Good."

John closed the distance between them, conscious of every breath, every heartbeat between them. Sherlock stood still, letting him move closer and closer, until John brushed his lips over Sherlock's.

The bow clattered to the floor and then Sherlock's fingers were in John's hair and he pulled John closer, his lips parting and his tongue demanding entrance to John's mouth in no uncertain terms. John gave in, clutching at Sherlock's shoulders, head tilted up to allow Sherlock access.

There was a flutter of fear in John's chest, a maliciously whispering voice in the back of his head, but John ignored both. He pressed himself against Sherlock's body, seeking as much contact as possible. Even through their clothing he could feel the beat of Sherlock's heart; steady, alive, binding John to this place and calming his own racing heart in a way nothing had ever done before.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first Sherlock fic I wrote and I am forever indebted to Lantean_drift for initial encouragement when I posted the idea as comment in her journal and for doing a wonderful beta job once I'd finished the fic. Many thanks also go to Caersmane for looking it over before it was completely done and encouraging me to keep going when I was at a low.


End file.
